


Wives and Lovers

by Prius



Series: It Might As Well Be Swing [2]
Category: Dragon Ball
Genre: Alien Sex, Blowjobs, Cloacal Sex, Developing Relationship, Fingering, M/M, Overstimulation, Post-Tournament Of Power, Sex, Size Difference, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, mild dub-con, overstepping boundaries
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-22
Updated: 2020-12-22
Packaged: 2021-03-10 21:40:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,673
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28244055
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Prius/pseuds/Prius
Summary: After the Tournament of Power, Frost is keen to meet with Hit again.(Heed the tags, make a note of the previous work's contents.)
Relationships: Frost/Hit (Dragon Ball)
Series: It Might As Well Be Swing [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2067306
Comments: 5
Kudos: 29





	Wives and Lovers

**Author's Note:**

> As stated above, heed the tags and please recall the previous story in this series. The contents of that story inform the events of this one, meaning that there will be mentions to abuse and the like. I also highly recommend you read the previous work to understand what's going on. 
> 
> I noticed that the reception from the Frit community was warm with my last fic, so I decided there was more to the universe I'd made and made this extension. If you left a comment on "Hello Dolly", you made this happen! Thank you.

“Not that I ain’t happy to be makin’ money an’ takin’ names again,” the thick, garbled voice of an alien thug said in the dry, ashy air, “But this seems a bit out of character for you, Boss.” 

Frost unconcernedly glanced over at the brute after he’d finished speaking. There were about a half-dozen others along with him— thugs and scum, the worst of the worst. They were all staring out at the barren, ash-scorched wasteland they’d created on planet Blue-JTN-9; a world containing a small, but still steadily growing community of people. 

Frost and his motley assembly of pirates- the universe’s underbelly’s finest- had just taken this planet by force. The major cities were razed. The mightiest warriors and armies lay defeated. Frost already had a buyer for the planet lined up and ready to pay. 

Frost’s tail-tip curled, considerately, in response to his minion’s words. “Everyone knows what I am now, my dear associate. Why should I hide it anymore? There won’t be any forgiveness of my misdeeds, and I don’t see why I should have to tuck my tail between my legs and hide like a common criminal.” 

Years ago, Frost had ordered these thugs to stir up trouble on other worlds just like this one. Destroy the planet’s infrastructure, lower property values, buy the cheap land, sell at a staggering markup. It was the perfect scheme, and as a benefit, made Frost look good. He could pretend to fight off phantom villains and dump money into orphanages and charity drives, and no one would take too close a look at the source of his finances. They were all too enamored with Frost the hero, Frost the Samaritan. On occasion he would even intervene in  _ real  _ wars, ones he hadn’t started, for the publicity. It had been a really good racket. 

Then he’d lost it all. Frost had been invited to a tournament a year and a handful of months prior, with the promise of rich rewards; his greed had outshone his caution. His true self had been revealed, and the Saiyan Cabba had gone squealing to the universe like the piglet he was. After that, Frost became the most wanted creature in the universe. He’d spent a year in squalor, hiding in dark alleys and cringing in the filth of the streets until he was unceremoniously picked up and pushed into a tournament of unfathomable stakes some months ago. 

He had felt the void during the tournament. Been  _ erased.  _ He had been betrayed and humiliated by that snake Frieza before that. And even before that, the eve of the Tournament, the assassin Hit had… had… 

Well, at any rate, Frost had spent these past few months, post-Tournament of Power, with a new perspective in life. There was no more need to skitter in the dark like a rat; none whatsoever. If anything, he was emboldened. 

An unexpected blaster shot rang out. Frost leapt back with a start, narrowly dodging it; he felt the heat radiating off of the blast, warming his face for a split second, and it sped off towards the horizon. 

Frost turned. There was a soldier lying in the dirt, a blaster mounted on his wrist, a dozen or so yards away. His arm was shaking. His expression was dumbfounded; his face pale. Evidently he hadn’t anticipated missing. 

Frost walked over to him, slowly. More shots were fired. Frost skirted them with ease, until he was close enough to place his heel lightly on the soldier’s wrist.

“Hello. I see you’ve had the good fortune to survive. Ordinarily, I wouldn’t let you do that, but I notice your model of blaster is…  _ exotic.  _ You’ve imported that from elsewhere in the universe… and it looks awfully expensive. Am I right?”

The soldier’s hands were shaking. He was smeared with ash, with dirt, with blood. His lips quivered, though he didn’t speak.

Frost withdrew his foot.

“Get out of here,” he said. “Run off. Go free. I don’t mind. I think there are still surviving space vessels in the closest city. Those will get you off the planet.” 

Frost gave the soldier a benevolent smile and backed away. The soldier, trembling, got up— he fled at a sprint, nearly tripping and falling a few times as he did so. He staggered at full-tilt across the battlefield, heading towards the blurry grey outline of the cityscape a few miles away. 

Frost turned back to rejoin his minions.

“Let’s go,” he said, dismissively. “We’ve finished here.” 

One of his mooks chimed in. “I don’t mean to question you, Boss, but you’re letting another one go? You’ve done that a ton already today. He’s going to talk, you know.” 

“Yeah, for these past couple of planets we haven’t even killed all that many,” another chimed. “You liked total wipeouts back in the day, but you’re letting everybody get away now! What’s up with that?” 

Frost gave a small  _ hmph.  _ “There is method to my madness, even if you don’t see it. I have more in my mind than just the selling of a few worlds— I want something much, much more.” 

/ / /

“You’ll be paid richly. Double your usual fee.”

The assassin Hit didn’t glance over at his contact. Their meeting was covert; two inconspicuous folk sitting at an intergalactic bus station. It was a small, fuzzy, moth-like alien sitting behind him— not directly his hiree, but an agent thereof. Their seats faced opposite from one another, with their backs pressed together. 

“Where is the money coming from?” Hit asked. It was not out of any kind of moral duty; it was to ensure that he would truly be paid as he was owed. 

“A coalition of six planets. We all had our worlds razed by the pirate Frost, and we want him dead.”

“Frost,” Hit repeated, thoughtfully. 

The reptilian alien had been making a name for himself in the news these past few months. He’d disappeared for a whole year, gone into hiding after being declared a criminal; then, like a phoenix, he had been resurrected in a bright burst of flame. He seemed intent on chewing through world after world, destroying and conquering everything in his wake.

Most curious, he left survivors.  _ Lots  _ of them. He had been generous in sparing rich folk, the most likely to be targeted by Frost’s criminal ilk, and left them with their riches intact. It seemed uncharacteristic of a money-hungry space pirate to not part the wealthy with their valuables… 

All that into account, Hit had a fairly good idea of what Frost was up to. If he was correct, then Frost was  _ trying  _ to earn himself a death at Hit’s hands. He was deliberately provoking a hit on himself by leaving the aristocrats alive. 

It was for revenge, Hit thought. Frost was seeking revenge, and an assassination job was the easiest way for them to meet again.

(When they’d left the Tournament of Power, Frost had given him a look of utter loathing.  _ “I’ll never forgive you for what you did to me,”  _ Frost had hissed to him, answered simply by Hit’s  _ “That’s fine.” _ )

“You’ll pay the first half up front,” Hit told his potential contractor. 

“Twenty-five percent,” the alien insisted, firmly.

“I ask for half up front.”

“This is half of your normal fee. It’s fair.”

Hit narrowed his eyes; though his conversation partner couldn’t tell. “The only person who’s going to stand a chance at killing someone like Frost is me. You don’t have any options.”

The alien hesitated. 

“Very well. But we expect him to be dead soon.  _ Very  _ soon. Do you hear me?” 

“I do.”

Hit stood up.

And, in the blink of an eye, there was only one alien sitting on that bench. 

/ / /

Finding Frost was not difficult. His last sighting was towards the edge of civilized space, on a small orange planet far from its solar system’s star. Its only sign of settlement was a single small outpost, housing around a dozen men. The world itself was inhospitable, unterraformed. The only breathable oxygen was inside space vessels, the singular building, and specialized suits meant for withstanding the surface. It was a mining colony, rich with ore— though all of the actual mining was carried out by drones with living supervision. 

Frost’s crew had kicked the supervisors off the planet, charitably leaving all of them alive, and had locked the outpost down. The only way to enter would be to acquire a specialized suit and obliquely make an entrance from the ground, or dock a vessel at the outpost with the pirates’ permission. If one attempted to attack from the atmosphere, the pirates could potentially jeopardize the integrity of the mine, and consequently ruin the mining operation. It was an intelligent defense, one with no easy way to conquer. The outpost was equipped with hydroponics facilities, geothermal generators, and all of the  _ accoutrements _ necessary for the miners’ self-sufficiency; or, in this case, an indefinite hostile takeover by pirates. It seemed Frost had grown bored with conquest, and he and his crew were intent on bunkering. 

This was not the first time Hit had made a complicated assassination, though, nor the first time he’d needed to take a spacewalk in specialized equipment. 

The gravity on the planet was light. The air- or, lack thereof- was dark orange and grainy, full of foreign aerosols and suspended rock particulates. The sky was black, speckled with stars even during the day, lacking a proper atmosphere; the system’s star was far-off and cold. The landscape was twisted and orange, containing grand volcanic spires and stark escarpments. It had tall tawny-russet cliffs, striped to the observer with the planet’s troubled tectonic history, and a ground speckled with meteoric craters and cliffs. The mining and its low atmosphere had not been kind to this planet. 

(Hit had flown in on the shadow of an asteroid, untraceable to ground-based radar. He was confident that he made contact with the planet’s troposphere without detection. From there, he piloted his ship relatively snug to the ground, slow and steady, before officially landing around a mile out from his objective. He would have flown using his  _ ki,  _ but on the off chance Frost could sense him coming, he opted to suppress his strength as much as possible.) 

As he departed his ship, Hit’s breathing was the only sound to be heard. It thrummed, rhythmically, in his ears as he walked; it was serene, in a way, to walk through this silent world with its strange landscape. It took perhaps twenty minutes to get the outpost, owing to the gravity and his unhurried stride. 

The base was built partially into a cliff face, overhanging a deep fissure in the earth, where the valuable minerals had first been discovered. It was an unfathomably long fall all the way to the bottom, and at its very deepest glowed a molten red. The ravine’s length, to both the left and right, seemed to go on forever— which was an issue, because the crevasse was squarely between Hit and the outpost. 

Hit judged the distance of the gap, and with a running start, leapt it in a single bound— owing, of course, to the low gravity and his own strength. He landed on the other side, creating a small plume of dust, and strode up to the outpost.

It had a large docking bay for freight vessels- the kind that would transport the raw materials of the colony’s mines- but of more pertinent interest was a smaller external airlock built into the side of the outpost. It was for miners intending on taking spacewalks, Hit supposed, or else a contingency plan if the men inside needed to abandon their station. 

There was a small panel with two buttons mounted next to the airlock doors. It was labeled in a language Hit was unfamiliar with, but the basic option of  _ open  _ and  _ close  _ were easy to guess. The airlock opened, soundlessly, and Hit stepped inside. It was a fairly standard cycling chamber; it would slowly eke out oxygen to fill the room, then gradually increase pressure on Hit’s body until the airlock’s gravity was the universal standard. It would facilitate a slow, metered adjustment— not that Hit’s body needed to be coddled in such a way.

It also meant that, in the ensuing minutes, Frost’s pirates would notice the airlock’s new resident and prepare for battle. It was nothing Hit couldn’t handle— Frost knew about his time skip, but  _ knowing  _ about it and  _ countering  _ it were very different indeed. At the absolute most dire of circumstances, Hit could simply jump into his pocket dimension and phase through any damage. 

He waited. Patiently. The pressure began to mount, slowly, until the gravity adjusted. There was a timer running on the side of the airlock’s wall, on a LED screen, displaying how long he’d have to wait in both alien numbers and a gradually filling progress bar. Red lights on the ceiling eventually flickered to a much less harsh yellowish-white, and the airlock gave a small  _ ding,  _ indicating it was ready to be opened. The progress bar had filled all the way, and the display of numbers was blank. 

Hit pressed a switch on the wall and prepared to jump forward in time, anticipating Frost’s assault. 

But there  _ was  _ no such aggression. There was a singular guard to greet him— a scrawny, red-skinned pirate with a mane of voluminous hair, staring at Hit in awe. He had a sign around his neck, in basic Common:  _ Please speak to me, Hit.  _

The sign… to account for Hit’s time skips, to ensure that the guard would be spoken to instead of moved past before they could speak. 

What kind of game was going on here? 

“You’ve gotta be Hit,” the guard said, looking like a landed fish. “Umm.”

“I’m supposed to speak to you?” Hit asked, guarded. He began to discard his spacewalking equipment; in a fight, it would be too cumbersome to wear… and somehow he suspected that Frost wouldn’t make it easy on him. 

“Right, yeah. Uh.” The alien, who had been sitting on a simple standard-issue folding chair, stood up from it abruptly. “I’m supposed to get you up to speed… Frost wants to make it clear that you’re not to hurt any of us or damage the integrity of this mining outpost, and in exchange, none of us will attack you… and in the event that Frost dies, we’re to let you walk out of here unharmed.”

Hit regarded him, warily. That seemed uncharacteristic of Frost; a conniving, self-centered devil to his last. 

“Frost wants to request an hour grace period, where you two can talk before you kill him,” the pirate continued. “He reserves the right to a last meal.” 

Hit thought for a moment; he would occasionally grant such injunctions to those of high character, or those who he had found strong and worthy. Frost, he supposed, met that standard. 

“Agreed.” The assassin said. 

“Right, then. You came at a somewhat inconvenient time— If I could ask you to wait here…” 

The guard wandered away, down a steel hallway. Leaving Hit alone.

Hit had not been expecting such minimal resistance. It was even more distressing than maximum resistance.

He could sense other power levels here… about a dozen. Most were small, comparatively speaking, only a challenge to the average alien. Frost’s power dwarfed and swallowed all of them, almost blotting them out entirely. The disgraced hero had never learned to keep a lid on his  _ ki—  _ anyone with even a vague ability to sense energy could tell that he was absurdly powerful, not helped by his deference to his ‘final form’ as of late. 

The guard returned. 

“Come with me?” He phrased it like a question. Hit nodded, and the two journeyed down the hall together.

The mining quarters were cramped and sterile. Not very large, and serving function over form. Bland greys, hard edges, very little additional trim or decoration. The halls and chambers were not very expansive. 

Warm air was pumped in and out of vents snaking around the ceiling, circling oxygen and heat in every room. The whir of fans was omnipresent. 

The red-skinned pirate stopped at a heavy hydraulic door- standard fare on these kinds of outposts- and stepped back, allowing Hit to enter at his leisure. 

Inside, Hit found a minimalist showering facility. There were a few squat, functional stalls with shower heads, drains, and minimal coverage between them. Frost was in the room, though was not currently making use of any of the equipment. He was drying himself off; he glanced up at the sound of the hydraulics. 

“There you are,” Frost said, unconcernedly. With no particular urgency spurring him on, he hung up the towel he had been using and slowly approached Hit. 

He looked different since Hit had last seen him— far less ravaged by his life on the run. He had put on a little more weight and muscle, and looked clean, well-fed, and well-rested. He had an affable aura about his person, and a genial smile on his face. He spoke in a pleasant, almost friendly tone: “Good morning to you, Hit. I suppose this time you really have been hired to kill me?” 

“Yes.” Hit said.

“My associate told you my demands?”

“Yes.”

“Fantastic.” Frost’s tail rippled. “Has my hour already started?”

“Yes.”

“No time to dawdle, then. Come with me, to my quarters.” Frost breezed past Hit, still slightly damp, and paced down the hallway with a detached calm. 

It was bizarre to see Frost so… tranquil. Hit didn’t sense nearly any of what he expected; the Frost he had last known was full of rage, of desperation, of fear, of hatred. None of that was present now. His cordial nature was earnest, as far as Hit could tell. 

Even so, something was sincerely wrong here— Frost was planning something. Hit had no idea what, and he wasn’t keen on finding out. He would humor this hour- give Frost a pleasant conversation before his demise- then do his job and collect his payment. 

He followed Frost. The quarters Frost had taken up in had once belonged to the head miner of this outpost, if Hit wasn’t mistaken; it was a single-bed room, small and unimpressive, with a little viewport out onto the planet’s surface. There was a bed, a dresser, a trunk at the foot of the bed, and a small locker. There were no other distinguishing decorations or features. The room was eight feet by eight feet, perhaps a little more; small on a civilized world but large in a place where every inch of space counted.

The hydraulic door shut with a  _ whoosh  _ behind Hit as he entered. Frost was gazing, pensively, out the room’s little round window. His arms were folded behind his back, hands clasping one another. 

“I know you’re not an idiot, Hit,” Frost stated, without looking back. “You’ve already put together that I enabled this meeting deliberately.”

Hit nodded. Confirmation was only a formality at this point. 

“You are thinking, right now, that I want revenge on you for what you did to me,” Frost said, “that a lust for vengeance was why I did all this.” 

He waited for a reply, and when he didn’t get one, he glanced to the side. “You’re wrong. This isn’t about revenge. I’ve had a few months to think about that tournament. About that Seventh Universe cutthroat, Frieza. About what you did to me. About my position in this world. About being… erased from existence.” 

“And?” Hit prompted. 

Frost’s voice became a bitter-sounding hiss. “I hate Frieza with every iota of my being. I hate him almost as much as you or Vados or Cabba. But Vados showed me, after the tournament, how it was won— he and that monkey, Goku… They beat Jiren together. And the image of that burrowed into my head. It seeped into my body. I thought at first that it was hatred for Frieza…” 

Frost turned to regard Hit. His expression was angered, grief-stricken, miserable, elated, all in one. He crossed his arms over his chest, palms and fingers digging into his shoulders in a self-embrace. Hit thought, with a brief flicker of alarm, that Frost was rapidly pivoting towards derangement. 

“... But it was  _ envy.  _ An all-consuming,  _ burning _ envy. He and Goku were bitter enemies. They would kill each other just as soon as they would shake hands. But they had one another’s  _ respect,  _ even still. I had never inspired that kind of thing before. No one across all the universes  _ respects  _ me, not the  _ real  _ me, not in the way those in Universe 7 respect Frieza.” 

“What are you getting at, Frost?” Hit pressed. 

Frost’s red eyes were piercing. “I thought about everything I’d ever done in my life after we returned from the tournament. And after a while… I realized that I have never truly loved anything other than the vague concept of  _ power.  _ That I vainly indulged in violence and cruelty in hopes that I would be happy. It came to me that I had never made real friends in my life— only business partners, pretend relationships, or allyships of convenience. I realized there was not a single person who would miss me if I slipped back into the Omni-King’s void— that there is not a single person who would help me out of respect or love. And this  _ consumed me,  _ Hit. So I gathered together my old acquaintances and held them close to me. Where I had seen regrettably necessary business partners before, I viewed potential allies and friends. I wanted to  _ feel  _ for them, Hit— to respect them, love them, hate them, and to have them do the same for myself, just as those Universe Seven Saiyans viewed Frieza and their other loathsome friends.”

Hit remained silent. 

“It’s exciting, to feel this way,” Frost told him, voice husky with urgency. “Have you ever?”

Hit paused. 

“No.” 

Frost exhaled, disappointed. “I didn’t think so. If you had, you would surround yourself with people. It is so…  _ deliriously intoxicating  _ to have others genuinely…  _ like you.”  _

With no rebuttal from Hit, Frost’s words ebbed. He turned away from the assassin, gingerly lowering himself to the bed. His hands sloughed from their tight grip on his shoulders, settling in his lap. 

“Vados mentioned something interesting to me,” Frost said, conversationally, sounding strangely faraway. 

“What was that?” Hit asked. 

Frost’s answer had an accusatory edge to it. 

“That you had been sworn to celibacy.” 

Hit tried not to visibly react to the unexpected change of subject. Of course the angelic attendant would mention as much— she took a delightful glee in overstepping the boundaries of mortals and gods alike. What difference was there between that information and her detailed explanation of Frost’s reproductive system, given to Hit some months ago? 

“Not _sworn,”_ Hit corrected. “It was preference, not some kind of oath.”

Frost’s tail flicked, moodily. Hit had no idea what his expression looked like, but could guess it was probably sour. “Ultimately, semantics. Why did you do it, Hit?” 

“I told you as much. To stabilize your heat,” Hit reminded. “We needed all the advantages we could get in the Tournament of Power.” 

“It didn’t help,” Frost pointed out, with a razor-sharp edge to his tone. “In the end, it was pointless.”

“We couldn’t have known that.” Hit replied, measured. 

“True,” Frost nodded in concession. “That wasn’t the point I was wanting to pursue, anyway. It was something else altogether… You liked it, didn’t you?”

Hit was momentarily taken aback. He did not immediately offer a reply, and Frost obligingly went on: “There was a moment… towards the middle, where you had this curious expression on your face… where it seemed as though the world was dead to you. You  _ liked  _ it, too much to stop. At that point, it wasn’t a job to you anymore.” 

Hit was unsure what the shorter alien was pushing towards, but that uncertainty did not last long. Frost, still poised on the bed, turned back towards him, very deliberately parting his thighs. The small, almost unnoticeable slit of his cloaca was the immediate focal point of Hit’s attention. 

“Come and take it,” Frost said, roughly, “If you think you can.” 

An invitation for a fight, or an invitation for…? Hit couldn’t read him. He couldn’t tell if Frost was angry or aroused. He had no idea if this was Frost’s way of seeking revenge, or if he had some sort of sexual itch this encounter was intended to scratch. He couldn’t tell if the violence Frost seemed to be suggesting was real or fantasy. 

“These months have changed you,” Hit observed, not ready to commit one way or the other. Frost’s eyes narrowed, and he brattily snapped his legs shut. 

“Of course they have. It was adapt or die, and I’m too good to  _ die.”  _ Frost tucked his knees up to his chest, tail smartly curling around his legs. He gave Hit a look of sheer animosity; the hatred that Hit had seen when they’d left the Tournament of Power, the venom Hit had been expecting during his visit. “You know, assassin, all I’d have to do to kill you is vaporize a single wall, and then you’d suffocate on this atmosphereless planet and die. Then I could forget about everything you did to me and move on with my life.” 

“You wouldn’t do that,” Hit told him. 

“Why not?” Frost asked.

“You would be killed, too.”

It was evidently the wrong thing to say. Frost’s despondent face broke out into a sinister little smile— one that made Hit feel suddenly precarious in his position.

“Vados didn’t mention that to you in her little anatomy lesson, then?” Frost said, lightly. 

“Mention what?” Hit pressed. He got the feeling he didn’t want to know. 

“It isn’t common knowledge- there are regrettably so few of my kind- so I’ll forgive your ignorance,” Frost said. “I am fully capable of surviving in the vacuum of space for short stints. It isn’t preferable, but all it takes is one deep breath and a little concentration.”

Hit processed. This was…  _ new  _ information, something he hadn’t known. He had made assumptions— errors. He had thought seeing Frost in combat these past few tournaments was all the preparation that was necessary… it hadn’t even occurred to him that such an ability would be present within Frost. It certainly explained why he was comfortable holing up in an airless, inhospitable outpost like this one. 

“As I recall, I was able to smother you when we last met,” Hit reminded, cautiously. Was this some kind of bluff? 

“You surprised me then,” Frost’s lip curled at the memory. “I panicked. If I had kept calm, it would have taken much longer for me to feel any effects. Too long for it to matter.” 

With that said, the both of them fell silent. They were in gridlock now, with each one waiting for the other to make the first move. 

Hit was not ready to go on the offense— he still wasn’t sure of Frost’s purpose in this meeting, thrown by the unstable teetering between passive, aggressive, and sexual. The assassin was sure now, though, that Frost’s experiences over the past year had not left him unscarred. There was a little glimmer of  _ hurt  _ in Frost that cried out for redress; undoubtedly the catalyst for this dramatic change in personality. His life on the run? His night with Hit? The Tournament of Power itself? All of the above? 

Frost inhaled. 

“If I give you something,” he said, delicately- each word deliberate and weighty- “Will you let me live?”

“No,” Hit told him, eyes narrowing. “Frost, say what you want plainly. You’re not helping yourself by playing coy.”

Frost got up. He approached Hit, his mouth curling in an irate scowl. He stopped less than a foot from Hit- the extreme difference in their heights further emphasized by this closeness- his eyes burning like resentful coals. 

“I  _ hate _ you, Hit,” Frost spat. “I hate you, and Cabba, and Vados— I hate Frieza and the Omni-King and Champa and Goku and Vegeta. I hate you all so much that it turns my stomach. Nothing would make me happier than destroying that wall, letting you get sucked out of this room, and watching you suffocate on this worthless rock of a planet—”

Hit stared on, impassively. Frost seemed only more aggravated by his greyrocking. 

“—But I can’t stop  _ thinking _ about you. About what Vados told me.” Frost grabbed the assassin, tightly, by the front of his coat. “Why  _ me?”  _

“I told you already. To regulate your—”

Frost gave an impatient snarl and dismissively shoved Hit to the side. Hit managed to get his feet under him before he could go crashing into the wall; on instinct, the assassin lunged forth to launch a counterassault against Frost. 

There was a split second of surprise in Frost’s eyes— a dawning shadow of consuming fear, of utter helplessness. Then he seemed to take ahold of himself; he set his teeth and readied for a fight. Frost raised his arms to defend himself, crossing them over his face. Hit skipped forth in time, intent on attacking from Frost’s side; before he could land his blow, Frost’s tail whipped to the side to counter. Hit dodged a sweeping strike, not managing to land his attack, but easily avoiding being hit. 

After the exchange, Frost took a few shaky steps back, still poised to parry the next attack. The short alien looked rattled. He was already breathing hard, pupils tightly constricted… Evidently he was not confident in his ability to fend off another attempt. 

“Wait!” Frost held a hand out between himself and Hit, earnestly gesturing to him to stop, to stay back. “I… Hold on. Please. I hate you more than anything, but I have not been able to escape you. Escape the  _ thought  _ of you.” He paused, struggling through some intense emotion. “I need to know if you feel the same way, Hit. That was why I had to call you here under these circumstances— I needed to know that more than I feared dying by your hand. Do you understand what I’m trying to say?” 

Hit could do nothing more than think of what he’d said earlier—  _ these months have changed you.  _ Frost had never had a sentimental streak. Never cared about being loved or appreciated.

It seemed the Tournament of Power had a profound- though undeniably harsh- effect on Frost. 

Frost couldn’t take Hit’s insipid silence for long. With a desperate snarl on his face, he levied his outstretched hand at the wall bearing the window. A sphere of  _ ki  _ materialized in his palm, glowing brightly; if released, it would be well more than enough to vaporize the entire wall.

“Well?” Frost demanded.

“Calm down, Frost,” Hit said, carefully neutral. He would have to skip forward, attack Frost before he could fire his  _ ki—  _ or, if worse came to worse, intercept the blast with his own body. Hit was far more durable than that wall. “Hysterics don’t suit you.” 

“Don’t you dare bark at me like you’re the one in control!” Frost’s tail, held aloft, slammed weightily against the floor to emphasize his words. “Hit, did that experience  _ mean  _ anything to you or not? Was it  _ really  _ just a job for you and nothing else? Do you ever  _ think _ about it?”

He was probing, desperately seeking the slightest fracture in Hit’s indomitable mask of stoicism. Hit did not want to give it to him, but considering his circumstances… 

“I think about it,” Hit admitted. Frost’s eyes widened, just a little, then settled; he lowered his arm back to his side, dispelling his  _ ki.  _ It took him a moment to speak; he was softer, gentler, less manic. 

“... Have you seen…” Frost hesitated, rephrasing. “Did you ask Vados how the tournament ended? Like I did?”

“I did.” Hit inclined his head slightly. 

“Do you think… given that we shared their circumstances… that we would have done what Frieza and Goku did, in order to win?”

Hit took a moment to mull on it; after a moment, he shook his head. Hit was no Goku, and as it had been made abundantly clear at the tournament, Frost was not quite a match for Frieza. The camaraderie, the chemistry, wasn’t there. The trust, the respect— it was not the same. 

Frost nodded, as if he’d already known how Hit would answer. 

“I want that,” Frost told him. “I want it, desperately. And you— Hit, I barely know you. I hate you with every fiber of my being. But I  _ want  _ to respect you. I want  _ you  _ to respect  _ me.  _ I want that unwavering, resolute trust in the face of danger and hatred.” 

“Both respect and trust have to be earned,” Hit cautioned, an old adage that leapt to his tongue without his say-so. 

Frost took a bold step forward, tail curling alluringly behind him. He inhaled, sharply. “Then we should start now.”

Hit could refuse. He could say  _ no.  _ He had never formulated a relationship of the kind Frost was asking for— simply asking Hit to trust  _ anyone,  _ much less the likes of Frost, was downright laughable.

But maybe there was a kernel of truth to what Frost was alleging— that Hit had some hereto undiscovered fondness for him. Maybe he was just in an agreeable mood today. Maybe… maybe he had gotten a  _ taste  _ of something with Frost those months ago, and now that he was being tempted again, he was hungry for more. 

“Alright,” Hit said. “Let’s start.” 

The corner of Frost’s mouth turned up in a slight smile. His walk back to the bed was more of a  _ sashay;  _ all his movements became explicitly deliberate and alluring. He slowly settled on the bed, and beckoned Hit forth to join him; he lounged with a deliberate air of sexuality, curling his legs to entice. 

“Is there anything  _ special  _ you might want from me?” Frost asked. He wasn’t looking Hit in the face, opting instead to coquettishly fix his gaze elsewhere; he played the role of the demure deviant quite well. “My first form will be easier for you to overpower, if you like that kind of thing…” 

“Don’t leave any marks,” Hit said, opting to ignore that little comment. He pressed a knee against the edge of the bed, pausing to drink in the sight of a lounging Frost.  _ Arousal  _ was unfamiliar to him, a concept that he was distantly aware of but never quite acquainted with. It was striking with a vengeance now; he found his eyes instinctively drawn to Frost’s defined thighs and his slender waist. There was a heat beginning to tighten in the assassin’s stomach; a flush creeping up his neck and a quickening to his breath. “Don’t grab me. Let me know if you’re in pain.” 

Frost may have consented to this, but that didn’t mean they wouldn’t encounter the same difficulties. Frost was still undersized for their pairing. 

“I had some thoughts about that,” Frost’s tail-tip flicked. “Something that would satisfy both of us without you ruining my body. And that ‘no grabbing’ quibble— does that include tails?” 

Hit gave him an impatient look. 

“Right, I see. But in the heat of things I might not be able to help it. Twining tails is part of my species’ mating ritual— it’s a very overwhelming urge.” 

Hit supposed that much was likely true. From his recollections of their last encounter, Frost had been almost unable to keep himself from wrapping his tail around  _ some  _ part of Hit.

“Fine,” Hit said. “What about you? Lay your conditions out now.” 

“When I say stop, you  _ stop.  _ I don’t care if you’re climaxing then and there, you  _ stop. _ I  **won’t** be used like an object again.” Frost paused, considering, and added: “I’ll say…  _ Glacier,  _ so you’ll know I truly mean it. Do we understand one another?” 

Hit nodded. Frost looked satisfied. “Good. Then I suppose we can get started.” 

Hit moved, gingerly sitting down. He began, slowly, to remove some of his vestments; shedding his coat, loosening his belt. “... What was this idea you mentioned, Frost?” 

“It would be easier to show you, I think…” Frost let that hang, leaning forward. He boldly palmed Hit through his trousers; the assassin inhaled, slightly, at the feeling. Frost slowly, deliberately, ran his palm back and forth, stroking Hit through his clothes. He glanced up at the assassin, wordlessly asking for permission, and when he received it, freed Hit’s member from the confines of his pants. 

Frost did not waste any time, nor begin gently; without waiting, he descended upon Hit, burying his head between Hit’s legs and earnestly sucking his shaft. Hit was momentarily taken aback, the breath coerced out of his lungs— when he got it back he wasted it on a deep, drawn-out groan. It took no time at all to realize that Frost’s ministrations were skillful, even practiced— he had definitely done this before. The short alien knew his limits for bobbing his head, how to contour his throat, where to lick and suck and nibble. Hit’s breaths were long and jagged, trying to keep up. 

Frost felt  _ good.  _ His mouth was warm and wet, flexible and accommodating around Hit’s length. It was an experience unlike the crushing, velvety heat of his cloaca; rather, it was a wholly unique kind of bliss. Shivers wracked Hit’s stiffened spine, and he had to keep himself from bucking into Frost’s inviting mouth.

Frost’s tongue danced up and down Hit’s shaft, lapping earnestly; he paused to suck at Hit’s superheated flesh, then moved to envelop the tip and the first few inches, repeating the pattern at his leisure. Frost’s pace was utterly relentless. When he slid deeper, taking Hit beyond his mouth and into his throat, Hit’s abdominal muscles tensed; he clenched his jaw, refraining from the overwhelming urge to push in further. Frost swallowed urgently around his length, muscles in his throat contracting minutely, and Hit almost saw stars. 

Frost’s skillful hands began to work around the base; stroking, squeezing, petting, in conjunction with his clever tongue. It wasn’t long before Hit could feel the pressure in his lower body building; he fought against it for a short while, trying to wring all the pleasure he could before climax— but he couldn’t stave it off for long.

The assassin’s hips stuttered forth of their own accord, breaking his streak of stillness. Frost spluttered a little at the unexpected movement, momentarily thrown off his rhythm, but he seemed to understand what it meant; he slid back, sucking the tip intently- tongue teasing Hit’s glans all the while- as his hands skillfully massaged Hit’s shaft. 

Hit groaned Frost’s name, resignedly; he bucked into Frost’s mouth, and the whole world went white as he came.

There was a moment of sheer, unimaginable bliss— the shuddering sensation of  _ release.  _ Hit enjoyed the unparalleled peace and pleasure of it, momentarily— his third experience of such a thing in an impossibly long millennium of life. 

Hit came back to himself a moment later, shivering from overstimulation and just slightly beginning to perspire. Frost was spitting Hit’s seed back up— or was trying to, anyway. He was a bit out of sorts after his showing; saliva and some small amount of ejaculate had trickled out of the corners of his mouth, an unfortunate consequence of being unable to swallow around Hit’s shaft. 

(A thought stabbed into Hit with tremendous weight—  _ ‘he looks good like that.’ _ It brought with it a dark, contented feeling— one that purred like a satiated animal in Hit’s chest.) 

“Ha. You’re smiling,” Frost’s tail kinked, and a satisfied smirk wrote itself into his features. He wiped his mouth off with the back of his palm. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you smile before.” 

“Don’t get used to it,” Hit said, brusquely. He attempted to settle himself— steady his breath, slow his elevated heart, cool his flushed face. At the same time, though, he felt heavy and satisfied from orgasm— Frost had definitely known what he was doing. 

Hit would need a minute to regain his stamina; his member lay soft and content between his legs, tacky with Frost’s saliva. In the meantime… 

“Lay back,” Hit instructed. Frost did as he was told. “Open your legs.” 

Simple commands seemed to be doing it for Frost; his pupils had dilated, and when he meekly parted his thighs for Hit, there was already a telltale glistening of slick around his cloaca. Gingerly, Hit traced little circles around the small, puckered slit; the skin was hot to the touch. Frost’s whole body shuddered, and mortified, he glanced away. 

“I’ve been meaning to ask you something, Frost,” Hit murmured. His forefinger skirted around the rim of the smaller alien’s slit, trailing through the accumulated slick; he could feel the tensing of Frost’s muscles, eager and anticipatory. 

_ “Nhhh.  _ And what would that be?” 

“You’re male, you’ve said as much… but I notice you’re missing something most males have.” Hit’s thumb teasingly pressed at the taut opening; Frost arched against him, trying to spur him deeper. 

“A-Ah, can we do the anatomy lesson  _ later—?” _

Hit’s thumb dragged itself away, returning to its earlier circling; Frost whined at the loss, propping himself up on his elbows to glare at Hit. 

“H-hah, if you  _ must  _ know— we’re hermaphroditic… the ‘male’ part of our anatomy does not function until we encounter a suitable mate…”

“I’m not suitable?” Hit asked, lightly. His forefinger pressed into Frost, delving into the warm, wet heat of his cloaca; Frost gave a soft whimper, arching intently against him.

“N-no, it’s—  _ Agh,  _ y-you wouldn’t understand it…” 

Hit’s finger delved deeper, seeking Frost’s sweet spot; when Frost’s irregular breaths elevated to heavy gasps, he knew he’d found it. 

“Try me,” Hit invited. 

“D-don’t make me  _ say it,” _ Frost whined to the ceiling. Hit had a pretty good guess as to what Frost was implying, but wanted to hear it come out of Frost’s mouth in full. He slid his finger free of Frost’s cloaca, and Frost gave a stroppy groan to the ceiling. 

“Th— the weaker of the two… is the receptive one,” Frost managed. “The weaker bears the egg so the stronger can have more children, and as such, has no need for their male parts to descend during the act. Do you get it?” 

Hit gave him a small smile. Before Frost could get indignant, he pushed his finger back in. 

Frost’s body shuddered around him. Fresh slick gushed; the muscles in Frost’s thighs twitched. Hit tenderly massaged that spot; Frost gasped and sputtered, then  _ groaned  _ when a second finger pushed up against the first, working in tandem to stimulate. 

His cloaca was a tight, velvety vice clamped around the assassin’s digits; Hit, on reflection, had no idea how he’d been able to fit his whole length into that tiny slit. 

(The memory of that night surfaced; Frost caterwauling like he was being killed, all the while Hit could think of nothing other than the tight wet  _ heat  _ wrapped around him. It had been so  _ hard  _ to keep control of himself— he had wanted to bear all his weight on Frost and pound into him blindly, finish inside and do it over again until he couldn’t find the strength to move anymore. It was a dark, cruel urge— one that chilled him on reflection. Frost didn’t deserve that.) 

_ “Hiiit,”  _ Frost ground out.  _ “Nghhh…”  _

His muscles were tensed, back starting to arch slightly; Hit intensified his fingering, hoping to bring Frost to a quick climax. The shorter alien’s thighs were already visibly beginning to shake; his stomach was tensed and quivery. Slick gushed from his slit, which had flushed and become swollen from the targeted stimulation.

Frost whimpered to the ceiling, clearly trying not to squirm from overstimulation; his tail lightly fell against Hit’s leg, and curled loosely around the assassin’s lower thigh. 

Frost tensed, minutely; if Hit hadn’t been looking for it, he might’ve missed it, as he did last time. Frost’s orgasms were not obvious, but they seemed to be enormously intense; Frost’s body froze, muscles clenching tightly around Hit’s fingers. He gave a high groan to the ceiling, riding through the pleasure of his orgasm, then slumped in a sweaty, loose-limbed heap. Hit withdrew his fingers before Frost could make any complaints. 

At the moment, the smaller alien looked… debauched. His reddened, needy cloaca, leaking slick… his limbs thrown askew, expression hazy… Hit could feel a tightness building in his lower stomach, refusing to be ignored. His member, aroused to half-hardness from the sight and sound of Frost’s pleasure, filled out fully from the picturesque scene of an orgasm-dazed partner. He very badly wanted to… 

_ Don’t,  _ Hit knew far better than to ask, or to attempt; Frost had strongly implied he did not  _ want  _ to copulate in the traditional sense. It was implicit that it was painful, or at the very least, unpleasant.

Even so, Hit found himself turning Frost on his stomach, and the shorter alien did not resist. His tail curled up, over his back, as if to urge him on. 

“H, hold on, I’m still… sensitive…” Frost managed. He propped himself up on his elbows, trying to catch his breath. “D-don’t touch me yet.” 

Hit touched him. His forefinger pressed into that warm, slick heat again, unfocused on pleasure this time; intent on stretching, spreading. Frost gave an undignified whimper and his elbows buckled, dropping his front back to the mattress.

“Ah—  _ ah,” _ the shorter alien trembled. “H, hey—”

His conscience chimed:  _ Hit, stop.  _ It was ignored. 

He added a second finger, to spread and scissor; to prepare the smaller being. Frost was shaking, unable to get words out. Slick was starting to trickle down his inner thighs.

Three fingers. Frost’s exhales were labored, fluttering. It was enough preparation, Hit thought— he was wet enough.

He spread Frost open with his thumb and forefinger; the sight of his warm, pink slit seemed unbearably enticing. Hit positioned himself, then gingerly began to press in; the feeling of Frost’s walls enveloping Hit was unbelievable,  _ indescribable.  _ Frost was so tight… 

Frost gathered the breath to speak, attempting to bellow: “Gla—”

Hit skipped forth in time. He placed his hand over Frost’s mouth, muting his cries:  _ Glacier, Glacier, Glacier!  _ It was just enough muffling that he could pretend that he hadn’t heard— that he didn’t know. 

He continued to push further into that impossibly wonderful wet heat— but Frost did not take to this violation of the rules well. As a matter of fact, he resisted. His tail snapped through the air, constricting around Hit’s torso tight enough to break bone; Frost blindly attempted to kick out at him, then bite Hit’s palm. 

Hit employed a newer trick in his toolkit: he phased out of the physical dimension into one of his own making. Frost’s tail slipped through him; the kick and bite went through empty air.

It had shocked the assassin out of his unthinking motions, though. He grasped ahold of himself, pulling free of the lustful daze that gripped his body— regaining control. He moved away from Frost, and shifted back into the physical plane. 

(The assassin’s sides hurt with every breath; Frost had gotten scarcely a moment to try to crush him, but even a moment was enough to injure.)

Frost had turned on his back and sat up, slightly trembling. He crossed his legs, looking defensive. 

“You insolent little reprobate,” he seethed. “How  _ dare  _ you pull such a stunt! I used the word! I said ‘Glacier’ and you kept going!” 

Hit had no defense for himself. He could not meet Frost’s gaze. 

“I should take vengeance for that,” Frost went on, indignantly. “Perhaps some strikes to your bottom would have the lesson sink in! Or maybe we reverse the roles and I shove  _ my  _ hand up your—”

“Sorry,” Hit muttered. It was one of very few times he had said as much and meant it. Frost hesitated, looking as though he wanted to continue ranting.

“I don’t like being used like I’m a tool to sire your bastards,” Frost continued, snippily. “I’m not breeding stock for your pleasure. I am  _ Frost _ and I demand that you treat me like such!” 

“I’ll control myself,” Hit told him.

“No, I think control is well out of your hands— do you think I’m just going to lie here on my belly and let you rut into me like a dog in heat?” Frost’s expression harshened to a scowl. “Lay down, Hit.” 

It was a contest of wills. On principle, Hit shouldn’t give in; he did not want to make any concessions to Frost, on the chance that such a thing would lay the groundwork for further forfeitures. On Frost’s end, though, the smaller alien would naturally feel entitled to some obedience from Hit after the circumstances of their first coupling.

Hit, despite his resolve, broke first. He shifted, obligingly taking Frost’s place on the bed; Frost moved around after him, ending up straddling his waist.

Frost stroked Hit’s member, which had begun to flag slightly during the wait; Hit inhaled a sharp breath through his teeth. Carefully, Frost lowered himself onto Hit; Hit’s head tilted back, and he let out a soft groan at the feeling. The head of his cock was swallowed into the dizzyingly tight warmth. 

_ “Hhhh…” _ Frost sank deeper; one inch, two inches. When he settled too far, his expression grew slightly strained, and he lifted himself back up, content with a more shallow depth. 

Satisfied with the length, he  _ rode  _ Hit. Rolling his hips, bucking up and down; it was a wholly new experience, one that was surprisingly different from Hit’s standard metric of copulation. 

Frost grunted from the effort, his exhales labored; he seemed intent on using Hit for his own pleasure, making no considerations for the assassin, which was admittedly fair. He sank down on Hit’s shaft in cyclical motions to repeatedly rub against his own sweet spot, consequently sending himself into a fit of shudders. The feeling of Frost’s walls, tightening around Hit with every motion, was nothing short of  _ unbelievable.  _

Frost’s slick was gushing, drooling out of his slit and down Hit’s shaft; the sound each little motion made was loud and obscene,  _ squelching  _ and  _ squicking  _ in the otherwise quiet room. They were both panting, loudly; Frost was expending more effort, given his position, and also more deliberately pleasuring himself. His moans were high and lingering, in contrast to Hit’s short, repetitive grunts. 

Frost’s shuddering body sank a little deeper onto Hit’s shaft, making the assassin hiss and groan. Frost seemed to be giving himself a reprieve from his earlier aggression; his pace lagged as he tried to catch his breath, trying to prolong the riding. 

Hit, who had been obediently still until this point, bucked up into Frost. The bolt of sheer pleasure elicited made the assassin’s jaw clench, and he  _ fought  _ to not keep thrusting up into that indescribable tightness. Frost gave an undignified squeak of surprise, evidently forgetting Hit was even capable of movement.

“Y-you’ll get yours, be patient,” Frost rebuked, tremulously. He lifted himself higher up on his knees, and went back to his previous motions; sliding his hot, velvety walls intently around Hit, abusing the bundle of pleasurable nerves in his own body. 

Frost began to whimper on his exhales, and his motions grew more frantic; his tail found Hit’s legs and curled around them tightly. He was dripping, now, all but gushing with slick—

He tightened around Hit, and Hit swore he saw white for a solid second; the pressure around his shaft was  _ indescribable.  _ Frost cried out, his orgasm hitting hard; his knees locked in place, holding him up as his back arched. After a moment, the crushing grip of his cloaca around Hit’s member loosened, as did the restrictive grasp of his tail— sensing what was to come, Hit quickly sat up to catch Frost before his thighs would buckle. 

They remained that way, in an awkward embrace, for a moment. Frost’s skin was smooth, soft, warm— Hit felt a mortifying bloom of affection, of  _ longing,  _ just from the feeling of a warm body flush with his. This close he could smell the soap on Frost from his earlier shower. 

Gingerly, Hit hefted Frost off his lap, and set him down to lie beside him. The reptilian alien’s red eyes were glazed; incoherent, for a moment, before clearing up. He panted, gently, into the air. His eyes found Hit’s. 

“I’m too tired to stop you,” he told Hit, weakly. “Just… just be gentle, I’m sore…” 

Hit nodded. It was the closest thing to permission Frost would ever give, he thought. 

Carefully, Hit positioned himself between Frost’s legs. There was small resistance when he pushed apart the smaller alien’s thighs, which were trembling slightly; Frost’s hole was red and puffy, completely soaked with slick. Hit rubbed at the slit with his thumb experimentally, gliding back and forth. Frost’s eager cloaca all but sucked his digit in; the reptilian alien gave a little nasal whine at the sensation, turning his head to the side. 

Hit felt a fleeting hunger for more than just satisfying himself— he had a striking urge to stimulate Frost until the smaller alien was beyond the point of orgasm… to persist until he was well and truly wrung out, pushed beyond his limits… 

Hit blinked this thought away. He stroked his member, spreading Frost’s own slick across it; he carefully lined up and pushed in.

Frost whimpered. His muscles contracted, and Hit took a deep, steadying breath. He pushed to the point Frost hadn’t delved past— then began slowly, carefully pulling out, then pushing in… Deeper, deeper… 

Frost was huffing, trying to keep up with the overwhelming sensations. Hit wasn’t doing much better. Frost’s walls were velvety-soft, like heaven clasped around him, and he wanted nothing more than to just drive deep into him… but he was slow, patient, working his way in and out with a gentle deliberation… 

Hit finally pushed himself all the way in; they lay flush together, in a moment’s repose. Hit drank it all in: the white hot pleasure-pain of Frost’s tight walls cradling him, the feeling of a warm body beneath him, Frost’s flushed face and stifled breaths. 

Hit leaned forward, laying his lips to Frost’s neck; the small alien, who had been trembling as he was slowly spread open, shivered violently. Hit stroked down his stomach, soothing and considerate, and ran his hands down Frost’s quivering thighs. He laid another kiss to Frost’s breastbone, trailing his lips down the plane of Frost’s pectoral muscles. 

He bucked his hips, though he couldn’t go any deeper. Frost squealed. Hit groaned noisily into Frost’s smooth skin. 

“Frost… Does it hurt?”

“A little,” Frost panted, strained. 

“Tell me what it feels like.” He kissed Frost’s throat, earning another shiver; he slowly pulled out, his length tightly gripped by Frost’s silken walls, and gently pushed back in with just as much resistance.

_ “Hhh, hhh—  _ Full, I feel like I’m about to split in two,” Frost answered.  _ “Hit—  _ yo-you’d better hurry up and finish already— and don’t you  _ dare _ do it inside me!” 

Hit thrust in without comment. Frost gave a heavy, rough gasp. 

Hit had been patient, accommodating— but he’d been eagerly seeking release for too long, and was not keen on restraining himself anymore. He would make this quick, but hopefully gentle, on Frost.

He moved more vigorously. Short, sharp thrusts, ones that made his head spin with pleasure. With an accompaniment of Frost’s whimpering breaths and Hit’s groans, they reached a wondrous crescendo— 

“You-  _ hah!- _ bastard!” Frost shouted, sensing Hit’s impending disobedience. “What,  _ ahh,  _ d-did I, just—!” 

Hit pushed in with a shout, one that warped into Frost’s name; he bucked against Frost’s walls for a final time, and found his release among that tight warmth. He crushed his chest against Frost, face buried in the curve of his shoulder; he squeezed his eyes shut, and let a blissful orgasm wash over him. For a moment there was nothing other than that wonderful heat, and a shivery, overstimulated bliss. 

Then he came back to reality. 

“Get off, get off, get off,” Frost was chanting. His tail was repeatedly swatting Hit’s rear, and none too gently, either. “Get off! It hurts!” 

Hit disengaged, and there was a wet-sounding squish as he pulled his softening member free. A small gush of slick went with it; Frost shuddered at the sensation, his face contorted in a mixture of irritation and disgust. 

“Y-you— you pigheaded, purblind, good-for-nothing—! Oughhh…” Frost sat up and gingerly placed his hand between his legs, wincing. “I s… I said  _ gentle,  _ what is  _ wrong  _ with you?”

Hit gave him a half-lidded look of amusement. “I’d offer to kiss it better…”

“ _ Huh!  _ Maybe you  _ should,”  _ Frost retorted, snippily. “I did for you, you know—” 

He lost the heat in his words when Hit leaned forward to place his head between Frost’s legs; the reptilian alien placed a panicked hand on the assassin’s shoulder to keep him at bay. “Hold on! D-don’t touch it for now, I told you it’s sensitive…!” 

His tail curled up defensively to protect his abused slit. Hit, smiling a rare smile, obligingly straightened up.

There was a long, comfortable pause, one that, after enough time, began to grow slightly awkward. Hit wasn’t quite sure what to do or say from here. He, personally, was content to float upon the comfortable afterglow of their copulation. There had been… bumps, but he had enjoyed himself— enjoyed  _ Frost,  _ oddly enough…They seemed an ill-suited pair, but the attraction was undeniable. Hit had liked it. A lot. 

Unfortunately, Hit had not originally been here for pleasure. 

“So…” Frost’s eyes slowly roved towards Hit, unsure. “My hour is up, if I’m not mistaken.”

“That’s right,” Hit replied. 

“Are you going to kill me?” There was a note of incredulity, but also resignation, in Frost’s voice. 

“When I accept jobs, I don’t back out on them,” Hit told him. “I haven’t failed a single assassination in my entire career.”

There was an undercurrent of tension. Frost was exhausted, and in no state to fight. Hit was not much better off. Still, Frost mustered his strength to resist his impending demise. 

Hit could tell what was going through his head: blast the wall, kill Hit, escape in the ensuing chaos. He got the impression that Frost viewed the idea with extreme reluctance, but liked the idea of dying even less. 

“However,” Hit finally relinquished, “You could go into hiding. Die in all but name. Disappear completely, and I will claim the responsibility for the deed. But if you act up- if you make a reappearance- I’ll have to kill you to keep my reputation in check.” 

“Where could I hide?” Frost asked, frustrated. “The whole Sixth Universe knows the face of my final form now. I’m not some nobody. I  _ will _ be caught, Hit— the kind of life you’re asking for is impossible for me to live.” 

Hit inhaled softly through his nose. He was letting his rushing hormones in the wake of sex make irrational decisions that his rational mind should be the one making. 

“... Vados owes me a favor,” Hit began. 

/ / /

“Here you are,” Frost said, giving a patient smile. His years playing at being an ambassador of peace gave him a very affable, customer-friendly demeanor; one well-suited to his new existence after Hit had ‘killed’ him. “Thank you for waiting.” 

“Yeah, yeah. Next time accept my coupon, cheapskate,” the customer he was serving huffed. Said customer grabbed his steaming bowl of space-ramen from the counter and sat on a nearby stool, pouting. He clicked his chopsticks reproachfully at Frost. “The least you could do for a super elite galactic patrolman is let him use a discount!” 

Frost opened his mouth to say something, but his coworker- technically, the owner of the shop- cut over him first. “We’re already giving you the standard 10% off for all members of the Galactic Patrol. You can’t use a coupon that’s out-of-date, and if you don’t like it, you can take that up with me.” 

The slender purple patrolman assessed Frost’s boss: huge, green, with multiple muscular tentacles and a sour face. He decided wisely to not ‘take it up with him’, and instead began stuffing his face. Frost turned around to continue washing dishes— what he had been doing before the new customer walked in.

Frost, as of close to three months ago, was no longer a denizen of the Sixth Universe. 

It had been surprisingly painless to make the transition— Hit made his case in front of Vados and Champa, stating that Frost should be removed from Universe Six and placed into Universe Seven. Champa had been persuaded easily enough to allow the swap, since it meant he would have an evil embarrassment taken from his universe and transferred to his brother’s. Vados was more skeptical, but after her god of destruction belligerently insisted, she had jumped across the universes and left Frost in the Seventh Universe to find his way on his own.

It was terrifying, being completely free of all attachments. Also  _ liberating.  _ Frost had no connections to anyone or anything- he had been dropped into an existence completely foreign to him, but at the same time, familiar. It was a palette swap of his old universe; the planets were more or less the same, but the developed cultures, histories, and people had diverged. It had taken a lot of careful adjustment to seem passably normal, like he had been a native of this universe. 

There were also a few other difficulties. Frost was no longer an international fugitive, but he still inspired fear, discomfort, and prejudice just with his appearance. He resembled the tyrant Frieza (how he  _ loathed  _ the very thought of Frieza!) and it made the denizens of Universe Seven wary of him. It had taken a long time to find anyone willing to help him, much less hire him, like his squid-like boss…

Frost could have let this prejudice stop him; he could have decided it would be easier to take as he wanted with force. Conquering and pillaging, running rampant and raking in the riches… All that was old hat to Frost, and would ensure a secure and pleasant life. 

But he had learned his lesson from his time in Universe Six.

This humbler existence was better, safer. Frost  _ liked  _ it, even. He liked his boss. He liked some of the regular customers. He liked making things. He liked getting  _ paid.  _

The kitchen was cozy to him now. Its neatly stacked rows of dishware, its organized spice cabinet, its packed ingredients cupboard, the simmering pots and pains, the cramped but yet efficiently utilized area… (Even though Frost’s tail was a bit of a hazard in such a confined space.) Frost greatly enjoyed his work, strange as it might have seemed.

Maybe, after all his fluctuating ups and downs, he was just happy to be  _ stabilized.  _ To work a regular, normal job, with a normal life. He was  _ content.  _ Ambition was dangerous; he had seen what would happen when one flew too close to the sun, and with that lesson in mind, he was satisfied with having a full belly, a handful of friends, and a home to call his own.

He was interrupted from his thoughts by a palm banging on the counter.

“Hey! You know, I just realized, you look super familiar,” the galactic patrolman said. He leaned forward, squinting his solid yellow eyes. Frost glanced back at him, puzzled, and shut off the sink. 

“Familiar?” Frost asked, politely. 

“Yeah.” He cupped his hand with his chin. “I just can’t place it, though… I swear I remember you from  _ somewhere…”  _

“I don’t think I know you,” Frost shrugged. “Sorry.”

The patrolman pursed his lips, intently staring. He brought more noodles to his mouth, slurping noisily; when he swallowed, he finally said, “You kinda look like Frieza.”

“Same species,” Frost said, apologetically; those were his usual words and demeanor when he received that odious comment. (He swore, half the damned customers said as much— evidently members of their race were few and far between- mirroring the Sixth universe- and the genocidal emperor Freiza was the figurehead of their whole species in this lovely universe.) “Not all of us are like him, I can assure you.” 

The patrolman sucked down more noodles, pausing considerately. 

“Yeah, you’re right,” he said. “I’m a good judge of character, and you look like a nice guy. Definitely not the planet conquering type.”

The patrolman leaned back, bringing his bowl up to his mouth with both hands; the patrolman gulped down the broth, exhaling in satisfaction and wiping his mouth with the back of his gloved palm. 

“Ahhh. You may not be good at conquering worlds, but you  _ do  _ make some good ramen,” the patrolman said, appreciatively. “I think I’ll even let that ‘take it up with me’ comment from earlier slide.”

He stood up, rolling his shoulders. “I gotta go do some elite Galactic Patrol work. Have a good day, citizens.” 

With that, the patrolman wandered out the door.

“Didn’t even tip,” Frost’s boss muttered. “I hate serving those Galactic Patrol pricks. I should get rid of that damned discount…”

He began clearing away the patrolman’s leftover bowl. Frost obligingly got out of his way as he bustled towards the sink. 

“... Hey. Frost, why don’t you take off?” The squid-like alien jerked his head in the direction of the door, his tendrils busy washing. “I think I’m gonna close up shop for the night, and you deserve to go home early.” 

Frost nodded. He gingerly undid the straps of his apron, and with a lingering glance back at his boss- whose steely gaze offered no compromise to his generosity- Frost left. 

It was a nice little existence, indeed, considering he had come from less than nothing when he’d arrived. Frost even had his own small apartment now (which had been hell to get, considering he had no proof of his birth, no family records, no existing credit history, no past employment— or any documentation of any kind, really.) 

If you’d told Frost three years ago he was going to be a noodle chef who had a tiny little four hundred square foot apartment on some small asteroid colony, he would have laughed in your face. If you had told him that one year ago he would have had the same reaction, for the opposite reason. 

All and all… living in the Seventh Universe was an adjustment. A rough adjustment, but an adjustment nonetheless. He was, at least, not a wanted criminal. It had been the do-over he’d desperately wanted for his entire miserable life on the lam. 

Frost breezed in through his front door, apron slung over one arm. He shut it with his tail and switched the lights on, glancing out at his—

Hit was sitting on his sofa.

He looked so ridiculously out of place there that Frost nearly laughed; his serious face, his assassin’s garb, and his formal demeanor were a hilarious combination with Frost’s humble decor.

Then the weight of his appearance- the true meaning of his arrival- set in and Frost blanched. He slowly, quietly, hung his apron up on a hook by the front door.

“Hello, Hit,” he said, cautiously. Hit gave him a small, acknowledging nod. “Are you here on business?” 

“No,” Hit answered, brusquely.

Frost’s lower body tightened, without his say-so. “For pleasure, then?”

Hit gave another slow nod. 

His gaze wandered around the room; it decorated rather sparsely and cheaply, as that was all Frost could afford.

“I wasn’t anticipating this kind of thing from you, Frost,” the assassin commented, leisurely. “I had been expecting you to get back to your old ways. I was… surprised to find you living in a place like this.”

Frost wondered, with a brief flicker of irritation, how long it’d taken Hit to find him  _ this  _ time. The man had an uncanny ability to track his targets.

To the implied insult, though. 

“I’m sorry I’ve failed to meet your expectations— but I won’t repeat my mistakes. If I go back to my old tricks I’ll either be noticed by Frieza, the Galactic Patrol, the gods of this universe, or those moronic Saiyans. I have to keep a low profile.” Frost told him, somewhat sore. He  _ knew  _ his current conditions weren’t stellar— but he had  _ earned  _ them, and they meant the world for that. 

“I’m not here to judge,” Hit conceded, looking away. 

“Ah… To the obvious question: what  _ are  _ you here for, then? You’re a long way from the Sixth universe, assassin.” 

Frost knew already. Hit  _ knew  _ Frost knew— this was all just part of the game.

“Frost,” Hit said, low and husky; his tone made the smaller alien shiver in anticipation. “Come here. I am going to  _ ruin  _ you.”

Frost, equal amounts of trepidation and excitement altering his steps, approached. He took a seat where indicated— on Hit’s waiting lap.

Hit cupped his chin, and brought him close. Their lips met in a brief, fluttering kiss. His other hand slid down Frost’s back, coming to rest slightly west of his tail. Frost could already feel Hit’s straining hardness through the fabric of his trousers. 

Frost could already imagine that damned thing pressing into him, filling him out completely as it had before… the exquisite pleasure-pain of being completely  _ stuffed  _ beyond his limits… the sound of Hit’s ragged gasps… the wetness of his slit, the heat of arousal in his lower body, the wonderful, blinding pleasure of having his sweet spot fingered— 

Hit kissed Frost’s neck, grinding his clothed erection against Frost’s groin… There was a little wet spot left behind on his trousers, courtesy of the slick beginning to drool from Frost’s slit… 

… Frost was going to have to call in sick tomorrow. 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading all the way through. Comments are much appreciated-- feedback is the only kind of currency fanfic writers (legally) get back for their work, and it makes works come more quickly and with greater polish. 
> 
> See you for the next one. Follow me on Twitter @ao3prius.


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